


Sweet Dreams

by quaffanddoff



Series: Give_Satisfaction [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Asphyxiation, Choking, First Time, M/M, POV Bertie, Sexual Tension, breath play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 15:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: Jeeves's latest ingenious plan for fishing his master out of the soup requires Bertie to place a great deal of trust into his hands.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Give_Satisfaction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561192
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	Sweet Dreams

Let it never, ever be said that my man is not willing do whatever it takes to get a job done. 

And yet, I would be remiss if I were to allow the impression to proliferate that yours truly isn't also known far and wide for his own unwavering persistence.

For example, late one evening recently, I was imbroglioed in an embroil — I think I've got that the right way round — of the type that all too often seems to be hell-bent on pursuing this Wooster to the ends of the earth. There's no time or need to get into all the nitty-gritty here; suffice it to say, a number of malicious actors were hot on my heels due to a misunderstanding that was utterly outside of my control and beyond the reasonable scope of my responsibilities.

Indisputably, the labyrinth-like corridors of idyllic Toffordshire Abbey are beautifully designed and decorated, but presently, I was traveling much too rapidly down them to fully appreciate the scenery. I swerved around a corner, tyres skidding, and parked at my destination: my chambers.

"Jeeves! Help! Please!" was all I managed to splutter.

He was waiting for me: he caught me by the shoulders and held me upright. I needed all the assistance I could get in this arena, for I was rather winded. I was panting so hard that I was a little light-headed. Perhaps I should consider introducing regular cardiovascular exercise into my routine if these sorts of high-jinks are going to keep cropping up in the old day-planner.

"I was almost caught stealing the donkey-shaped teapot, but I escaped before anyone saw me!" I expounded breathlessly. "Colonel Rippington is on the prowl though, and surely he suspects me. He and his entourage will be charging in here any minute now, and I have no alibi!"

"I believe a solution presents itself, sir. If you were found in bed, deeply asleep, the Colonel would have no choice but to concede that you could not possibly have been anywhere near the antiques room mere moments ago."

"But Jeeves, I'm awful at feigning sleep! All he has to do is pinch me and I'll yelp and the whole souffle will collapse."

"That is why the unconsciousness must be real, sir."

"I suppose you're right. But I can't face getting coshed on the crumpet yet again!" I cringed at the memory. "I always awaken with a devil of a headache. Plus I can't imagine doing so supplements the long-term health of the old grey matter, which after all, is in short supply to begin with."

"I have an idea that, while not without some degree of risk, should circumvent that issue, sir."

"You do, Jeeves? What unlimited reserves of grey matter you must have! What's this stratagem?"

Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. "Sir, do you trust me?"

"Of course!" I said with no corresponding hesitation to speak of.

"Then if you will please get in bed, sir, in order to set the scene."

I bunged myself between the sheets, grateful that I had attempted my reconnaissance mission in my pyjamas.

Jeeves had a look on his face that I had never seen before. I think it was...embarrassment? Was that possible? And why now?

This question was answered when he swung a well-dressed knee up onto my bed. Before I knew what was happening, the man was straddling my recumbent form.

I gaped at what was clearly a hallucination brought on by too many past biffs to the bean. "Please forgive the imposition, sir," he apologized.

Next thing I knew, his hands were closing around my neck. I was frozen in shock like ice on an electric fence; I raised not one finger to defend myself. Contributing to my immobility was his sturdy weight pinning me down to the bed. Immediately, I felt a pressure start to build in my cranium. It was not painful, only intense. 

I was struck by the strength of his grip. He was not squeezing particularly hard, but his fingers felt like the iron bars of a tiny jail cell. A look of determination pervaded his countenance.

Because I do have my occasional bursts of insight, I was starting to get an idea of what his plan was. My windpipe wasn't constricted at all, however; he seemed to be attacking mainly from the side elevations. No sooner did I think, "The blighter's mucked it up, doesn't he realize I can still breathe?" than did I start to notice the edges of my vision going grey and fuzzy. I could breathe just fine but my consciousness was beginning to slip like a silk petticoat.

If I had had the luxury of expecting anything, I would have expected to feel a panicky, desperate sensation, like the survival instinct that kicks in when one is drowning. Or perhaps the kind of tum-wrenching that comes with getting the wind knocked out of one. But instead I just felt suffused with a wonderful feeling of peace, a calm sort of thrill. Or possibly a thrilling sort of calm. 

Either way, a dashed pleasant sensation, to be sure. I felt loopy. Blood was rushing up to my face. Either I was already dreaming, or some of it was also rushing down to...

The last thing I saw was Jeeves' dark eyes boring into mine.

*

I woke up still feeling a little woozy and giddy, but besides that, rather spiffing.

A glance at the clock told me only ten minutes had elapsed. It was now past midnight. Jeeves rose from the chair next to the bed.

"Jeeves! Good Lord!"

"Sir, the plan worked. Colonel Rippington was completely convinced of your genuine unconsciousness, and thus, your innocence."

"Did he pinch me?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

"You remained nonresponsive, sir."

"Well, that is topping news! Thank you!" I hadn't woken up that morning expecting to end the day gushing with gratitude toward my manservent for suffocating the living daylights out of me, but I've found that life is sometimes unpredictable that way. "That, whatchacallit, assy-fixation wheeze was a real corker. How did you learn to do that?"

Jeeves paused for half a mo' before saying, "I gathered it from medical texts I have read, sir."

"So that was you putting theoretical knowledge into action for the first time?"

"...Indeed, sir."

"Bally incredible!" I hopped out of bed feeling, as I mentioned, a little dizzy, but besides that, unharmed. I happened to catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and leaned close to the glass with a frown. "Say, has the Wooster dial always had all these little freckles?"

"No, sir. Those are what medical professionals term petechiae: minuscule marks indicating intradermal hemorrhage, that is, subcutaneous bleeding due to minor trauma."

"Good Lord, these patecky-whatsits are from the choking?"

"Strangulation, not choking, sir. Regrettably, yes. Fortunately they will fade completely within a few hours."

"Oh. Quite."

I gazed again into the mirror. There was no bruising on my neck, but those tiny spots dotted my map, concentrated mainly around my eyes and temples. They weren't so unsightly, really. In fact, I actually had a measure of affection for the little chaps. They were a visual reminder of the narrow escape I'd made, a subtle souvenir of Jeeves's ingenuity. Even after I could no longer feel his hands around my neck, my skin still retained some memory.

I had a hunch that, long after the spots were gone, I would still remember.

"So, er, old thing. Could you, that is, do you think you might, well — you see, would you possibly teach, well not teach, as such, I mean to say — just in case I ever need to?"

"I would be happy to pass on this technique if you would like, sir." For a question that had been torturous to ask, it appeared remarkably easy to answer.

"Rather!"

And then he was lying in bed.

Jeeves. In my bed. What a night for the anthologies this was turning out to be!

I clambered on top of him just as he had done me. I was feeling rather embarrassed myself, especially when I settled myself upon his hips and remembered what I thought I felt just before going under.

But Jeeves was professional as always. "Simply grasp around my neck with both hands, sir, and squeeze. The objective is to compress the carotid arteries and/or jugular veins on the sides of the neck without injury to the trachea. This serves to restrict blood reaching the brain rather than to cut off the airway, a manoeuvre which brings about the intended result in a much more expeditious and safe manner. Once syncope has been achieved, simply let go, sir."

"Right-o!" I settled my hands upon his throat tentatively.

"You must grasp harder, sir."

"Harder?" I squeaked.

"Much harder, sir... Harder still... It does not need to be very hard. But harder than that, sir..."

I knew I was barely squeezing at all, but it was near impossible to force myself to do something that ran so contrary to my instincts for Jeeves-preservation. As I stated at the beginning of this story, however, the mark of a Wooster is that he sees a thing through to the end, no matter how insurmountable the challenge.

"Now you're getting there, sir. Just a bit harder... You will not hurt me, sir. Harder. Hahhh..."

Why did he end the sentence so ungrammatically, you ask? I let the dreamy expression that settled upon his face answer that question.

Watching my man drift away beneath me aroused a multitude of different reactions at once. It was terrifying but also exhilarating. I could feel his pulse thumping away. I sometimes doubted that the man was flesh and blood, but the warm skin beneath my fingertips proved beyond all reasonable doubt that he was indeed human. Knowing that he trusted me to do this made me feel strangely honoured. And knowing the man's life was quite literally in my hands felt dashed powerful. A spark of aggression flared in the young master, who was previously thought to be properly domesticated.

As my man faded out, I noticed that he was experiencing the same reallocation of blood that I had felt, and I don't mean only in his face. That said, there I was, too, feeling it again, even though my arteries gave me no good excuse this time. Due to our positions, the stirrings were contiguous, and I think one had prompted the other, but I could not say which had started it. It was a chicken-and-egg sort of problem.

His eyes fluttered shut. I let go. I studied his inert form. He continued to breathe but was obviously out cold. It truly seemed as if he had just nipped off for a nap, albeit very abruptly.

I found myself grappling internally with a most unseemly urge. It may not have been at all _preux_, but I knew this opportunity would never again present itself. As soon as I realized this was (most likely) my one and only chance, the wild impulse overtook me. Before I could stop myself, I leaned down and pressed my lips gently to his. My eyes fluttered shut, just like his had, and I dreamed a sweet dream, just like he was.


End file.
